“Because it’s not yours!”

Something changed in her eyes. It’s true they became softer, but that certain knowledge returned to them, the same that was so characteristic of Elizabeth Ashton. “It’s special to you,” she said.

He closed his eyes and stepped away, wiping a hand down his face. With a sigh, he continued to walk, where he crossed Henry Street and met the sidewalk. “Please leave me be.”

“Mr. Clayton—”

“It baffles me that such a house would intrigue you.” Really, it didn’t.

“And why is that?” She tried walking next to him, even though he made an obvious attempt to stay ahead of her.

“I’m guessing you haven’t heard of its downside?”

“What, that it sits right in the core of the beast’s habitat?”

He threw a sidelong glance her way, giving up and allowing her to walk beside him. He tried not to like the way it felt.

“Regina told me, of course,” she added, “how terrifying that part of the forest is. And yet…” She paused for effect. “It’s where you live.”

“I live there because my family always has. I’m well protected. I never go out at night.”

“So I hear.”

He paused, Taggart’s office beside him. He was tempted to throw her in the tiny cell they called the jailhouse. “You’re not helping your case, Ms. Ashton. And however you want to take it, I’m doing this only for your protection.”

Her look said she didn’t believe him.

“Moreover,” he went on, “Doctor Ortiz doesn’t need help. As far as I understand, an almost-nursing degree is all you have under your belt, besides housekeeping for a billionaire.” He gave a short laugh. “And I don’t need the help, nor would I ever hire you.”

“Never would I consider it, Mr. Clayton.”

His feet trudged forward again, his head hurting. “Then tell me, just for argument’s sake, what would you plan on doing in a small town with nothing to offer?”

“Is it me with nothing to offer, or the town?” she asked, amusement in her voice.

“Both.”

She took a deep, slightly nervous breath again. He studied her as they walked, taking it in. It almost entertained him. “The old bakery. Jean’s Bakery.”

He stopped short, a thousand tiny pulses of heat leaving his brain and forcing the muscles around his eyes taut. “What about it?”

Her fingers wrung around each other. “I’m assuming that’s special to you, too…”

Briefly dazed, his eyes hardly registered Ms. Ashton or the town square across the street behind her, its fountain streams never ceasing. His vision blurred at thoughts of his mother, of the way she cared for that place. “It’s not for lease,” was all he said, walking ahead with his mind still far away.

“I’ll do whatever it takes, Mr. Clayton. Please let me bring it to life again. If you just let me show you what I can do—”

“I don’t want you to bring it to life again.” He faced her. “Even if it was for lease, you could never afford it. Any of it.”

“I have money.”

He sighed, a battle raging inside. A part of him, however small, wanted to embrace such a change. But the more dominant side wanted to scream with irritation that she wanted the change, and then run in fear. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ashton. But I can’t give you what you want. I won’t.”

She slumped, releasing a breath as though it was her last, and defeat finally filled her eyes. He turned away, walking as quickly as he could to the diner.

***

Coffee dripped at a steady pace from the diner’s electric coffeemaker—not the greatest model if you asked Regina. But no one ever had, not until Elizabeth. She’d come in early with Regina, before the sun had even risen, and together they’d plotted. It was mostly Regina’s idea of course, since Elizabeth was hesitant about stealing the diner’s customers, but the idea excited Regina. She’d almost forgotten how much she missed good coffee. Oregon crawled with coffee shops and espresso stands, even a drive-thru on every corner for those too busy to wander inside somewhere. Maybe the gray, wet weather was to blame, driving folks to it like it was necessary for survival. Regina liked to stop at those places whenever she could frequent other cities. Her favorite was the little corner place at the south suburban end of Portland called Joe’s Joe. She wished Hemlock had somewhere like that.

But this morning Elizabeth had proven her talent all right. Coffee-making like that was a creative art only someone in the Pacific Northwest could appreciate, and the fact that a girl from L.A. possessed it made it more fated. Elizabeth was meant for Oregon, and more so, for Hemlock Veils.

Last night, when they’d begun plotting—again, mostly Regina doing the plotting—Elizabeth told her about the small bag of fresh coffee grounds she’d brought with her, ones she’d just ground the morning she’d left L.A. They were from a fancy bean she used to order from Brazil, from some port called Santos—the only ones her old employer, and also Elizabeth, liked. The grounds were coarse, unlike the finely crushed, almost-powder Regina had been ordering online. Elizabeth’s were the size of the Epsom salts Regina used in her baths sometimes. Elizabeth had been saving it, she’d said. And the way Regina saw it, she’d been saving it for a moment just like this.

Elizabeth was reluctant, maybe even a little snobbish, about using the Hemlock Diner’s drip coffeepot. It wasn’t bad, Elizabeth had said; just not what she was used to. She’d told Regina she’d been using the wrong size grounds for such a machine, and the time it brewed was all wrong. Regina had been using the stuff best made for espresso machines. And that was only part of the problem.

They’d made a batch early that morning, just to test it, and though Regina wasn’t normally a swearing woman except for in her mind, she’d sworn after trying it. Three times she’d sworn, since they were the only words appropriate. It was those fancy Brazilian beans and the coarse grain and the brewing time, and the ratio, too. Apparently, Regina had been putting too much water to coffee. Those four things, and just like that the old Hemlock Diner’s coffeepot went from making the bitterest, dirtiest coffee to producing the nectar of the coffee gods. And Elizabeth said it was usually better, that with the right equipment—and Regina sensed there was some other secret, too—she could get it to absolute perfection. Regina could hardly imagine it, since it seemed perfect as it was.

She’d had to convince Elizabeth it would be good enough for Mr. Clayton, especially in comparison to what he’d been used to. Knowing Mr. Clayton, and Regina knew him well enough, trickery would be the only way to get him to try it. Elizabeth still hadn’t been sure of that when she’d left twenty minutes ago, off to meet Mr. Clayton for a walk—and more nervous than Regina had ever seen her, even after her encounter with the monster—but it was her only shot.

When enough of the second batch, containing the last of Elizabeth’s precious grounds, found its way into the pot—and Regina waited the right amount of time like Elizabeth had taught her—Regina poured it into Mr. Clayton’s favorite mug, which had been warmed (another trick Elizabeth showed her, to keep the coffee fresh and hot). She poured a sip-size amount into her own mug, just to make sure it tasted as exquisite as the first. She blew on it a bit before carefully allowing the liquid to touch her lips. It nearly scorched, the way Regina preferred, and she let a little into her mouth, savoring. And, oh dear Heaven, it was just as good as the first: rich and point (that term, which she’d just learned from Elizabeth that morning, meant the coffee had positive characteristics of flavor, body, and acidity), and even slightly nutty, though she didn’t know how. She swore again, louder than when Elizabeth had been here, since she was alone behind the counter.

The bell on the door jingled and Mr. Clayton came in alone, no Elizabeth behind him. Not a good sign. An even worse sign: he looked flustered and hurried, sliding edgily into his corner booth and flipping the paper open before he could even settle. What had Elizabeth said to him this time? Not that Regina blamed Elizabeth for being the only one with enough guts to stand up to the man, but if Elizabeth wanted to stay in Hemlock, she was going to have to learn to control her words around Mr. Clayton.